


Forgiveness

by snitchnipped



Series: Dichotomy [4]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Backstory, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:37:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2089080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snitchnipped/pseuds/snitchnipped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"you will remember / for we in our youth / did these things // yes many and beautiful things" —Sappho 24A, trans. Anne Carson.  Lucy meets a new friend—one with familiar ties to the Narnia of old.  Written for the 2012 Narnia Fic Exchange.  Part of the Dichotomy Universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> Familiarity with other stories in the _Dichotomy_ Universe is highly encouraged.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, who also gave me the direction on how to approach this thing, though she probably doesn’t realize it.

**FORGIVENESS  
** **Daventry, Northamptonshire, UK. October 25, 1947.**

* * *

“Would you care for the window open, Mrs. Wilkins?” Lucy set the teetering tea set on the edge of the table, relieved that she managed to do so without incident. The teapot was silver, so there was very little worry of damaging it. The same could not be said of the matching teacups, nor the carpet. As Lucy moved an old vase containing a single withered rose over to make room, dried petals drifted onto the starched doily underneath.

“Tell me, my dear Leslie, does my great-grandson strike your fancy?”

“What? No!” Lucy clipped, but then clamped her mouth shut once she realized how rude that may have come across. She felt her cheeks grow warm. “And it’s Lucy.”

“What? Speak up, dear.”

“My name’s _Lucy._ ”

“Yes, yes, Lucy…of course,” Mrs. Wilkins tittered. She adjusted the crocheted blanket around her shoulders and settled deeper into her chair. “He’s a nice boy, a good boy, and he could do with a girl with a good head on her shoulders. I wouldn’t want him to take after any on his father’s side,” she said with a huff. “Nothing good comes out of a bastard line, I tell you.”

Lucy was taken aback by the brash language coming from the old woman, especially in regards to her grandson. She decided to let it be. “The window, Mrs. Wilkins?” 

“Oh. Keep it closed. We may have another winter like the last one. I catch a chill so easily.”

The odds of having a record-breaking winter as the last one were slim, Lucy knew. Especially since it was still October and it had been a rather pleasant autumn day outside. 

The muffled sound of her brother and his friend talking in the kitchen filtered in, and Lucy’s head turned slightly towards the door as she poured out two cups of tea. “I thought he was your grandson, not your great-grandson, though.” 

“Grandson, great-grandson, it’s all the same to me. What does it matter, I haven’t got long anyway,” Mrs. Wilkins huffed. “No sugar, dear, but thank you.”

Lucy put the bowl she had been holding back down onto the table, deciding to refrain as well. There was no need for strangers to know of her sugar indulgences.

“What brings you here, my dear Lucy? I’m not sure what an old lady can give you that a young lad cannot.”

Lucy took a big breath and shuffled her shoes on the wood floor. She wished she could tuck her feet under her bottom, but Lucy didn’t think that would be appropriate. She settled on anxiously winding a golden strand of her hair around a finger instead. “I’m here for you, Mrs. Wilkins,” she finally said. “I’m interested in your family.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t any family anymore. Except for my great-grandson.”

“No, I mean besides your, er, grandson. I would like to know more about you—where you came from, your parents,” Lucy said. “And perhaps…your sister?”

The last word must have struck a chord, for the old woman stiffened her in her seat, lips pursed. “My sister is long, long gone. She ran away years ago and abandoned her family and her loved ones. That is all I know, and I have nothing more to tell. End of story.”

“Oh no! I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Wilkins,” Lucy said, putting down her teacup. “I don’t mean to upset you by any means!”

“You may not have, my dear. But the topic of my sister Helen is upsetting, nonetheless.”

Lucy wondered if perhaps this may have been all a mistake in coming here. However, after how everything unfolded on how she succeeded in finding Mrs. Wilkins in the first place, she decided that no, she was meant to have come. Deep down, Lucy felt it would have been wrong _not_ to. 

In the years since her first return from Narnia, Lucy had wondered more and more of the first humans to arrive in Narnia—and her curiosity grew with each of her subsequent returns. And, well, it rather bothered Lucy, for she had long suspected that it was possible that the first King and Queen of Narnia may have left family behind. In recent years (once she was old enough—again—to venture out on her own) she had researched what she could, enough to make Susan proud. 

Thinking of her sister made Lucy feel a little sad…as much as she would have loved to have discussed Frank and Helen with her sister, she knew they would not be able to do so like they had all those long hours in Narnia when it was Susan who was most interested in the first monarchs’ origins. This time, Lucy had been so tempted to ask for her sister’s help. Susan was the one with the talent in research and discovery. But thankfully, Lucy hadn’t needed her sister’s help. Little did she realize when her search began how easy it would be.

Of course, there had been some help from Ms. Polly Plummer, who accompanied her to the library to help research the newspaper archives. Lucy was originally searching the obituaries in the chance that either Frank or Helen had been officially declared dead at any time. Unfortunately, there had been no luck in finding any such records. It did not help the matter that she did not even know their full names. 

However, by divine providence, Lucy stumbled upon an extraordinary news report in the back pages of a yellowed and brittled newspaper. The general details of time and place were even confirmed by Ms. Plummer. The article described a rather anomalous instance of a disturbing incident in London, describing damaged public property in that blunt way of old newspapers—there had been an altercation of a few citizens with a madwoman, with a full list of the damages incurred (a destroyed lamppost, missing parts unknown) and the statement of an irate business owner who reported the disappearance of one of his cabbie’s, the cabbie’s wife, and the owner’s handsome cab in the aftermath (reparation to be taken out of cabbie’s salary if returned damaged or if not at all). The specific details were astonishing at first, but most importantly, it had the information Lucy needed: the first Kind and Queen of Narnia were indeed Frank Brown and his wife Helen Brown (née Hastings.)

Of course, that did not seem much to go on. There must have been hundreds and hundreds of Browns throughout London alone at that time. Lucy had decided to concentrate her search on Helen’s family, but she hadn’t the slightest idea what to do next once she had a name to work with.

Luckily, she needn’t have worried. As it were, it only took a simple inquiry in the form of a letter to her brother (who had an answer for everything) at the University, asking on how one would be able to trace a family name such as Hastings. The very same brother who had a close friend whose own grandmother happened to be a Hastings. It seemed that Lucy had beaten the odds, and after a few simple questions, the relation was confirmed. Within two weeks, Lucy was on the train to Northamptonshire with her brother and his friend to visit Mrs. Grace Wilkins, née Hastings.

On the train ride up to the country, Mrs. Wilkins’ grandson warned that “the old lady’s mind was running about five years behind the times,” but Lucy didn’t let that deter her. She did, however, upon meeting the grandson, successfully brush off any inquiries as to why she was researching into the Hastings family to begin with. Lucy had her brother to thank for that, too, who was a master at changing the subject. 

And now, as easy as the initial search had proved, it was the confrontation with Helen’s actual sister that was proving to be the hardest part. Lucy did not want to upset the old woman any further than she already was and quickly decided on a different tactic. 

“Tell me about her. About the happy times, then. About the two of you when you were young,” Lucy cajoled. “Surely there was a time before—before she left—when you were happy. Was she younger than you?”

“No, she was older, but not by much. And she left way too young. I must admit, I was young and selfish myself. Nellie was my best friend, my best playmate.” At this, the woman started to laugh, building deep in her chest. “Oh, the havoc the two of us would cause! Our governess had a miserable time trying to keep us in line.” 

The change in the woman’s attitude was a relief to Lucy. “I have a sister, too. And we had grand adventures together when we were younger,” she prompted.

“Such as the case with sisters who are close,” Mrs. Wilkins said. Her milky eyes watered slightly as she began to reminisce. “On the farm in which we grew up, there was a grand willow tree that was three stories high and nearly as wide. That tree was both our castle and our pirate ship, and we would climb up and down that trunk as if it was an actual crow’s nest. We would occasionally swing down on the hanging branches, too. And if we were smart enough, we would have grabbed enough to support our weight and not come crashing down!”

Lucy laughed at the image that created in her mind. Mrs. Wilkins joined in with a few raspy chuckles of her own before she continued.

“And every spring, we would make a contest of who could find the first litter of barn kittens. The winner got to name them, though with enough protest on my part if I lost, Nellie would allow me the honor. She was very generous that way,” she said. “And when the kittens disappeared—for barn cats always do, my dear, never grow too attached to them—Nellie would be the first to distract me with a new game, adventure, or fairy story, usually out by our tree-castle. We considered ourselves queens of that castle. Goodness, I haven’t thought about this in years. It’s like it was just yesterday.” Mrs. Wilkins sighed and scratched at her nose with a shaky hand. “What school do you attend, my dear?”

Having found herself daydreaming of the lighter times spent in Narnia with her own sister, the non sequitur took Lucy by surprise. “What? Oh…St. Finbar’s.”

“Hunh,” Mrs. Wilkins grunted.

“I find it quite adequate,” Lucy weakly offered.

“And then one day, she met a boy,” Mrs. Wilkins continued as if she had not interrupted their exchange at all. “And then there were no more summers in the fields, picking wildflowers for mother, telling stories to each other late at night.”

“Growing up can be hard.” And Lucy would know—she was discovering that having a second chance at growing up did not make it any easier, either.

“He was poor and useless. She deserved better,” Mrs. Wilkins huffed, having ignored Lucy’s reasoning. “Mother and father wanted her to marry one of the Garrard boys. One of them would have made a crown for her, just like they eventually did for Victoria. And Elizabeth just a few years ago.”

Lucy’s brow furrowed. She only vaguely recalled the historic family name of the Crown Jeweler. “The coronation was ten years ago.”

“You’re wrong, dear, George just took the throne last year.”

Lucy opened her mouth to say that that had been in 1937, but decided against it. That was something Edmund would have done, but she knew there were times that correcting your elders wasn’t the wisest course of action. It was best to steer the conversation back on track instead.

“Did you know him well at all?” Lucy asked. “Frank, I mean.” 

The old woman recoiled back into her seat. “How do you know his name?”

“Oh! Oh, well—“

“No, I admit I did not know him well,” Mrs. Wilkins continued. “Just that his coat was tattered, his limbs too gangly, and he had no name to back him up. Frank Brown. Ha! A peasant name. He was likely Scot,” she scoffed. “Or worse, Irish! She had her pick of young men, and she had to run off with that worthless, dull-eyed Frank Brown!”

This was not going as well as Lucy had hoped. “Surely he could not have been that bad….”

“He turned her. He must have,” Mrs. Wilkins insisted. “She had been so gentle, so dutiful. She never would have left us otherwise. But she went to London with him, and after awhile, the letters just…” she trailed before pulling an embroidered handkerchief from seat cushion with a shaky hand. “The letters just stopped. Some said her husband killed her, others said they left the country to Canada. It didn’t matter how. Frank took her away and never brought her back. I’ve missed her,” she said. “I still miss her.”

Lucy reached across the table and clutched the cool, spotted hand that was tightly gripping the handkerchief. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Lucy let her hand go, and gestured to the silver set between them. “Would you care for some of your tea, Mrs. Wilkins?”

“No! No tea. It’s too warm outside.” 

Mrs. Wilkins was still clearly agitated, and Lucy felt a pang of guilt deep in her gut. It was not her intention to bring any anguish to a poor old woman, who was now gripping tightly onto the length of her long, old-fashioned skirt.

Lucy had come expecting some sadness, but she most wanted to give some semblance of peace to this old woman who had been so incredibly angry for so long. Lucy, of course, expected that the anger was out of love and not of malice. Mrs. Wilkins, though slightly senile in her age, seemed gracious enough even if she came across just a tad gruff at times. Lucy decided it was worth the risk.

“What if I told you that your sister did have a happy life, Mrs. Wilkins?” 

“Eh? You’ll have to speak up, dear.”

Lucy cleared her throat. “Helen. She was happy. And she did not leave to spite you by any means.”

“And how would you know?” 

Lucy casually took another sip of her tea as she collected her thoughts on how best to approach the delicate subject matter. “Do you trust me, Mrs. Wilkins? I hope you know that I mean no harm, of course.”

The old woman’s brow wrinkled further and her gaze went slightly over Lucy’s shoulder. “Yes,” she said. “I think I can.” 

“And you mustn’t tell anyone. Not a single soul.”

The woman looked down at the wrinkled handkerchief in her hand. “There’s no one left to tell, my dear.”

Lucy set her cup back down and straightened in her seat. “You were not too far off in the imaginations of your childhood. She _was_ a queen. She was taken away from this place, from England, along with Frank to a…another world. And she was made queen, a beloved queen next to her king, admired and loved all of her life by all of the country of which they founded. And, oh, it is the most glorious, magical country, Mrs. Wilkins, and if you just saw it you would understand why she left and why she stayed and why it was all for the best.”

There was a moment of silence as Mrs. Wilkins absorbed everything that Lucy had blurted out. “You speak of fairy tales, child. Like those that Nellie would once tell me,” she told Lucy, but not with very much conviction. 

“No. I speak the truth. You said that you trusted me.”

The old woman let out a long sigh and nodded. Lucy took that as permission to continue. 

“It’s called Narnia. Helen was the first Queen of Narnia,” Lucy said with reverence.

“Narnia,” Mrs. Wilkins softly repeated. She went to finally reach for her tea before pulling back again. “And what of children?”

Though she was getting used to Mrs. Wilkins’ mannerisms, Lucy was still rather surprised that this would have been the first thing Helen’s sister would have asked. “I can tell you she had sons and daughters both.”

“How many, my dear? Did they look like her? Nellie had the most beautiful hair, quite like yours. How I envied her so.” 

“Oh…well…I—I don’t know how many she had. I never knew her personally. Which is why I came to you, actually. I wanted to learn more about her, which I now have—thank you for that—and, well….” she trailed. “Someone needs to know what happened to her. Here, in England.” Lucy closed her eyes and gave her head a quick shake. “What I mean to say is that someone in her family, even if it’s just one person, deserves to know what became of her. And that they needn’t worry. Or, be angry with her,” she added. 

Mrs. Wilkins settled back into the cushions of her chair. “Then tell me, child.”

So Lucy did. She spoke of what she had learned from tales of the fauns and the dryads, and of the records from the old dusty history tomes that Edmund and Susan would read. Of the Christmases and the blending of traditions that Lucy had learned that Frank and Helen had practiced. Lucy rambled on and on, an old habit that others had teased her about for years, but at this point, she did not care. And neither did Mrs. Wilkins, who slowly became more and more enraptured the more Lucy spoke.

It was to both Lucy’s delight and relief that Mrs. Wilkins took it in all the information in stride. Perhaps it was due to her utmost need for any information of her long lost sister, or it could have been a just her nature to be so open in her trust and belief. Regardless, Lucy talked, and Mrs. Wilkins listened with only the occasional interruption in the form of a question or a request for clarification.

What was most remarkable, though, was how much sharper and focused the old woman’s mind slowly became, never straying to random, unrelated questions or differing opinions on the weather. Mrs. Wilkins sat taller in her chair, her eyes became clearer, and her hands relaxed from the grip of the handkerchief with nary a tremor. 

“And Frank?” Mrs. Wilkins finally asked, though the old woman sounded hesitant to do so. Old prejudices die hard, Lucy knew. “Was he good to her?”

Lucy quickly thought upon King Lune, and his sons Cor and Corin, their ancestors, and all of the other people she knew that were descended from Frank and Helen’s line. After all, all of Archenland was—mostly—descended from that first King and Queen. And then there were the countless generations since the Golden Age, too…it was one of Lucy’s biggest regrets that she knew not of Archenland’s fate during Caspian’s time. But of the descendants she personally did know?

“He must have been a magnificent husband and father for her children and her children’s children to have been as wonderful as they were.” 

And with that, Lucy talked more of the Frank and Helen’s line. She never had much of a mind of memorizing facts and figures from books, not unless it really caught her attention. She couldn’t tell Mrs. Wilkins all the details she would have liked—how many years Helen sat on the throne, and the like—but she told of the subjects. About how generations later, Helen’s descendants founded another country who, to this day, as far as Lucy knew, still flourished. Lucy went into detail of the land and people and the history that made up Archenland (with only a quick glossing over the nasty bits).

The rush of getting this off her chest was exhilarating. Though Lucy was good at keeping secrets, especially with sensitive subjects, it didn’t mean that it came easy. It had been so long since she had been able to speak so freely of her days in Narnia, especially with both Peter and Edmund away at school, and Susan being Susan. And she could not remember the last time she had spoken at length, either, not even at school. By the time Lucy concluded her tale of Helen, she found herself near exhaustion from prattling on. She went for a refill of her tea, but she had apparently already drained the last bit from the pot while she had talked. 

And poor Mrs. Wilkins seemed to be in a daze, sitting still as stone. 

“What marvelous things you tell me, young Lucy,” Mrs. Wilkins finally remarked with a slight shake of her head. “And I want to believe them.”

Lucy looked Mrs. Wilkins directly in the eye. “Then do.”

“I…I think I can,” Mrs. Wilkins replied, sounding almost as if she was surprised of herself in believing it. “Yes. I do believe you.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said. “Rest assured, Mrs. Wilkins, she is at peace.”

“Peace,” Mrs. Wilkins softly repeated, as she eased back into her seat, the wicker creaking beneath the cushions. “Oh, Nellie. No doubt she liked you. You’re very much like her.”

Lucy pursed her lips in dismay. She had already told Mrs. Wilkins that she hadn’t known Helen personally, but the information had not seemed to stick. “No, Mrs. Wilkins. Like I said, I didn’t know her like you did. I didn’t know her at all.”

Mrs. Wilkins frowned slightly in confusion. “Then how did you know of her? How do you know of this…this Narnia?”

“I’m afraid that’s a bit of a long story, too….”

_“Lucy!”_

Lucy looked towards the kitchen from where her brother had called. “I’m afraid we need to get going, Mrs. Wilkins. We have a train to catch back to London.”

“And you said that she is at peace? Do you really think that?” 

Lucy smiled, putting her empty cup down onto its saucer with a delicate _clink!_ This was something she knew she reassure with confidence. Aslan would have made it so. “Yes, Mrs. Wilkins. Queen Helen’s at peace.”

“Then all is forgiven. I know she had to leave me. Indeed, there is nothing to forgive.” Mrs. Wilkins slowly sat back in her seat. “You are wondrous, my child. Simply wondrous. You deserve many beautiful things in your life. Just like Helen seems to have had.”

Lucy felt her cheeks go pink at the praise and attempted to think of an appropriate response. The sun had set lower on the horizon, and the golden glow through the windows stretched long across the room, illuminating the silver tea pot. Dust floated in and out of the fading beams of light, and as the two of them quietly sat for a few minutes more, Lucy became mesmerized watching the sparkling particles.

_“Luuucy! We need to go!”_

With a jerk, Lucy quickly started to gather up the tea service.

“Never mind, my dear, I’ll have my great-grandson clean it later,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Or, no… he’s my grandson, isn’t he. He’s a good boy, regardless, nothing at all like his father—”

As the old woman rambled on, Lucy smiled and put the creamer back onto the tray. She leaned forward in her chair and once again grasped the top of the old woman’s cold hand. “I really do need to go, Mrs. Wilkins. Would you like for me to come again?”

“I would. I want you to tell me more about this place… about Nellie. It’s still…well, it’s still confusing….” 

“I will, I promise. Perhaps during the holidays. But remember, you must keep it a secret, right?” Lucy asked in an exaggerated whisper. A loud one, of course, so Mrs. Wilkins could hear. “And perhaps next time, you could tell me more about you.”

When Mrs. Wilkins didn’t immediately respond, Lucy thought she had said something wrong. “I would like that very much,” the old woman finally said, her voice tight with emotion. “That’s nice of you to offer, dear.” 

Lucy responded with a gentle squeeze of her hand before standing up with a mild stretch and a sigh. After a full afternoon of storytelling, it was no surprise that her muscles had cramped from sitting for so long. Lucy was briefly reminded of her long days at court.

“Peace. She’s at peace,” Mrs. Wilkins muttered as Lucy stepped around the table and leaned over to give Mrs.Wilkins a peck on the cheek.

“Yes she is,” Lucy said. 

As she crossed over to the kitchen where her brother and his friend waited, Mrs. Wilkins called out, “Have Colin bring me my tea! It’s bound to get cold in here soon. We’re due for another winter like the last one, and I will need my grandson to always bring me some tea.” 

Her hand hovering over the door handle, Lucy looked over her shoulder and eyed the cold, untouched cup of tea. “I will, Mrs. Wilkins,” Lucy said with a smile to Helen’s sister. She could not have been more satisfied with how well the afternoon had unfolded. “And I will see you at Christmas.”

* * *

“One forgives to the degree that one loves.”

—Francois de La Rochefoucauld


End file.
